CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHARLEY WARBECK’S FRIENDS—PRISON LIFE—TRUE LOVE—THE SURPRISE AND PARDON.
Mr. Charles Warbeck had now been in confinement for more than three months, and even had become more or less reconciled to his lot.
His luxuriant head of hair was cropped so closely, according to “regulations,” by the prison barber that very little capillary substance was left upon his cranium, which now looked very much like a close-worn blacking-brush.
His highly-prized bit of whisker, upon which he had bestowed so much fondness and care—his moustacheos, also, which, with the aid of unguent, much combing, brushing, and Hungarian paste, had assumed of yore quite a fierce and military twist—were all now sacrificed to the barbarous razor.
And shorn of these hirsute charms, he felt very little sorrow or humiliation when vested and officially enrobed in the zebra-like suit of striped flannel jacket and trousers, which was the apparel of the prison.
Although by no means a rogue, he was herded with a gang of ruffians, murderers, swindlers, pickpockets and the very off-scourings of all the earth.
And such society, it must be confessed, was a much greater punishment to his sensitive feelings than the confinement, remorse, or a thousand inconveniences and annoyances to which he was daily and hourly subjected.
Had he been of pliant nature he might soon have become as utterly depraved as his companions.
But his demeanour was so gentle, his manner so mild, and general deportment so humble and resigned, that the prison authorities soon removed him from the bands of ruffians with whom he had hitherto laboured in the quarries and on the public roads.
He seldom spoke, and although there was a mild resignation in his looks and bearing, his eyes had a light of honest independence about them, and his voice a firmness of tone which told of a guiltless soul suffering from some chance misfortune over which, in a moment of temptation, it had not sufficient control.
The prison keepers and guards were unanimous in pronouncing his conduct “excellent,” and so stated it upon their several day-books and weekly reports.
The chaplain, indeed, with whom Charley had as frequent interviews as could be allowed, was loud in his praises of the gentlemanly prisoner, and when Charles had confessed to him, in conversation, the whole story of his misdemeanour, he shook him by the hand, and said,
“I fully understand the whole case; it was a pity.”
“And yet,” he added, “although paying the penalty of what might not be considered actually a theft, since you had fully determined to deliver the packet, this, your present experience, may be of incalculable good to you for your whole life.”
Good old Dame Worthington was a frequent visitor to see “her dear boy,” and was always provided with a basket of considerable size, containing a plentiful supply of whatever the authorities would permit to prisoners.
Not unfrequently, also, Miss Clara took the same journey, sometimes with Dame Worthington, but more often alone, for the distance was not very great, so that she could go and return very easily in a few hours.
The interviews between Charles and Dame Worthington were of a painful description to both.
Sometimes old Sir Richard was present likewise, by “mere accident,” as he said.
They were loud in their hopes of obtaining a pardon from the king.
With the prospect of speedy relief Charley’s spirits rose, and his health began to improve so much that he soon acquired a strong, hardy, robust look, from wholesome hard labour, a good appetite, and a pure conscience.
His hair began to grow again, and curl as luxuriantly as ever.
Miss Clara was in raptures at his improved appearance, and seemed so lost in his company that she frequently came very near losing her conveyance, which would have been not only very annoying, but must have disclosed these frequent visits to her mother.
Mistress Haylark, in truth, often checked her daughter’s eloquence when discoursing of Charles and reminded her in a whisper that he was a “convict,” and that “it would not do to have anything to say, or even to know such a person.”
“Besides, my dear, you have good prospects in life, and money to receive when you marry; but if your ambition doesn’t run higher than to love a penniless fellow like him, without character or prospects, why then you are not ‘a Haylark,’ that’s all I can say about it.”
A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
Despite all that could be said by her mother to the contrary, Clara was constantly thinking and dreaming about Charles.
She had committed a grievous theft, and stole his likeness on ivory from Dame Worthington’s back parlour, and having made a case for it, hung it round her neck inside her bosom, and whenever feeling particular sentimental, she would draw it forth, kiss it, put it back again, and then indulge in that inexpensive luxury known to females as “agoodcry!”
Miss Clara had fully made up her mind to marry Charles when he came forth from prison—that is, if she could get him.
But upon that point she sometimes had very serious misgivings.
For she knew several young ladies in the neighbourhood, who in former times were “setting their caps” at him.
Such disagreeable reflections often threw her into fits of despondency, and on such occasions no one could prevail upon her to sing or play in the parlour, as was her custom of an evening.
And she had been known to flounce out of that apartment in high dudgeon, on one occasion, when someone had mentioned the name of Miss Josephine Smith, who lived next door, and enjoyed a great reputation for a pretty figure, and a graceful dancer—two things in which Clara innocently supposed herself to be greatly deficient.
On a particular afternoon, Miss Clara had been excruciatingly miserable, and knew not the reasons why.
When twilight came she went into the parlour and uncovered the harp, with the intention of playing some pathetic air by way of consolation; but, upon entering the apartment, she perceived Dame Worthington and old Sir Richard Warbeckin earnest conversation in the back parlour, and Charles’s name being mentioned, Clara leaned against the half-opened folding doors and listened.
“Well, Iknowthat the affectionate little Dolly likes him, as much as any girl evercoulddo, but I don’t think he cares so much abouther, perhaps,” said the old dame.
“Say no more about it; if he makes a judicious match I will assist him in the world; but as to mere ’curls, and ‘harp playing,’ and all that superficial nonsense, I know he has an ambition above allthat. The girlhecarries in his heart has greater qualifications thanthese, or I am much mistaken,Iknow the ladyheadmires most, and she doesn’t livemorethan a hundred miles from this house,” Sir Richard said.
Clara Haylark could hear no more; she rushed from the apartment in despair. The die was cast! Charles was lost for ever!
For several days she kept her rooms, and could not be prevailed upon, despite all importunities, to appear in the parlour after tea.
No one could assign a cause for her absence, and a certain Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who was hopelessly paying his addresses to her under the secret auspices of her mother, called evening after evening without seeing his idol on the music-stool, and retired to his cold and lonely lodgings in meek resignation, luxuriating in melancholy madness, yet feeling an intense dismal satisfaction that he could truthfully report to his intended mother-in-law that he was daily decreasing in rotundity, and fast falling into a galloping fashionable decline!
Charles, who, in his legal seclusion, far from all temptation and the frivolities of the world, knew comparatively nothing of what was passing within the sphere of the good old dame’s respectable hotel, was much surprised at the altered language in which Miss Clara now addressed him, and could not divine the causes therefore.
Clara’s notes, which formerly were full of hope, love, fidelity, and all the tender and most interesting passions, now pictured to him nought but her bleak and blank despair.
She told him she was “lost.”
That all she wished for now in this sublunary world was “a quiet grave,” where, of course, moss-roses, violets, and forget-me-nots might bloom.
But of aught else she had neither hopes nor expectations.
She told him, moreover, that her heart was broken, and intimated that nought on earth could mend it, or join the dissevered parts anew, &c.
Finally she said his heart was given to another, and that she was left alone to droop and die!
Surprised beyond measure at the change in her style of language, Charley Warbeck chafed exceedingly, and could not understand what had happened to cause a rupture between his “little curly head,” as he jocosely termed her, and himself.
Surely no one could have divined the temporary passion which had inflamed him for the old gaoler’s daughter, he thought; and save this slight indiscretion, his heart had not strayed from the affectionate, unsophisticated Clara!
Until now, he knew not how much he had loved her!
Now, indeed, his passion began to flame with tenfold ardour; and when she no longer visited him in prison as of yore, and sent no word of love or kindness by the much-expected and long looked-for post, he begun to decline in health, and visibly to pine.
“Some enemy has been at work,” thought he.
“I would give untold wealth to have this thing explained! A more true-hearted girl never breathed the breath of life, and I would give ten thousand kingdoms to call her mine!
“She has been faithful to me in all my adversity.
“She, of all I ever knew, is the only one who does not despise me.
“If I live I will make her my wife, or else have none at all, if I could even exist for a thousand years.”
Dame Worthington, and also Sir Richard, visited the prisoner as of yore. They abated nothing of their former kindness—if anything, they loved him all the more—yet Charley’s health visibly declined, nor could his friends imagine the cause thereof.
Mental anxiety had laid him upon an hospital bed, and there he lay for many days.
The good doctor had watched his case with more than ordinary anxiety and care.
When making his usual “rounds” to the patients, he came laughingly to Charley’s bedside one morning, and jocosely observed, as he passed on, “I will not prescribe for this case to-day,” and placed in his patient’s hands the King’s pardon!
Surprised beyond measure, Charles read the document time after time, as if distrustful of his senses, and then begged permission to leave the prison walls immediately!
The good doctor smiled, and at last permitted it; and Charles, weak, pale, and subdued in spirit, put on his best clothes, and was soon on his way to Dame Worthington’s.
It was past the time for dinner.
He saw by the light in the parlour that some one was there!
The door stood ajar.
He went into the passage, and noiselessly entered the parlour!
At the harp sat Clara, and behind her Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who was pressing her to sing.
She hesitated much, and begged to be excused.
As there were no other persons present, her beau impudently attempted to kiss the player.
But this was more than Charley could bear.
He quietly advanced, knocked Fumbleton aside, and kissed her himself!
Clara’s surprise was great!
She gave a little scream, rose from the music-stool, and embraced Charles unreservedly.
Fumbleton, Esq., perceived at a glance that he was not at all wanted, and considerably “out of place.”
Like a wise youth, he vacated the apartment very expeditiously, and was never seen here more!
It was some moments ere Miss Clara was released from the strong arms of Mr. Charles, and eventhenhe seemed much loth to part with the mass of curls which had nestled so affectionately and confidingly around his neck.
But her little scream had been heard by Mistress Haylark, who, in maternal anxiety for her fair, accomplished, and only child, quickly arrived upon the scene, puffing and blowing, and, discovering the true state of things, gave a second edition of her daughter’s little scream, and sank upon the capacious sofa completely exhausted with her efforts.
Dame Worthington, hearing the rumpus, came into the room.
She looked at the youth for one moment, and would have fainted, but Charley supported her.
After much kissing and hugging, and re-kissing and re-hugging, she fully recovered, and began laughing and crying and bustling about, preparing a substantial meal for “her boy.”
And so the time passed, until a messenger having informed old Sir Richard of the course of events, that worthy and much-esteemed gentleman arrived.
He shook Charles cordially by the hand, and retired for a private chat with Dame Worthington in the back parlor, where—as Mistress Haylark often afterwards solemnly affirmed—he was observed through the keyhole to kiss and embrace her as affectionately as if he were a youth of twenty, and she of not more than sixteen summers.
Be that as it may, we only know, through the “Truthful Chronicle,” that the evening passed extremely cheerful, and that all those acquainted with the true state of things drank more than one glass of wine to Charley’s success; that Dame Worthington wept and embraced him often and often; that old Sir Richard shook him repeatedly by the hand, and that Clara Haylark was more than once called out of the room by a whisper from the servant, when Charley waylaid and kissed her so often as to seriously jeopardize the safety of her cherry and seductively pouting lips.